Page 202 of Immortal Rose

While Brighten had greeted me with a bow, the physician eyed me with rank suspicion. He wore a fine suit, having clearly been invited to the ball himself, and that was possibly the only nice thing I could say about him.

His essence cut through me like a scalpel, as wretched as the disdainful look on his face. There was blood there, yes, but there was also the scent of marrow, herbs, bittersweet medicines, a jagged metallic odor like a saw. Within moments, it had even stained the lovely perfume in my hand, tinging the rose with a sickly decay that nearly brought me to my knees.

“I do not see how your family’s infernal fairy magic will be of use,” he spat out. “I cannot believe I am being made to witness this. It degrades the art of healing.”

“My lord,” Eleanor said sharply, “I’ll not have you speak to my friend in such a way. She’s here to help as much as you are.”

My friend. Guilt flooded my mouth with bile. After tonight, I doubted she’d claim me as such.

The physician flushed with the same molten hatred as his essence, curdling like hot wine. “Indeed.”

“I’ll just apply it and leave you to your art, then,” I said faintly.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Chatford growled, snatching the bottle out of my hand. “Tell me how it is meant to be applied and be off.”

“My lord,” Eleanor said again, her words cleaving the air like a sword. “Enough.”

With a snorting breath, the man relented, gritting his teeth.

“Where?” he asked me again.

“Beneath his nose and where you feel the pulse on his neck,” I supplied, matching his disdain with my own. “It may be hours before you see a result—”

“Not even instantaneous,” the physician sneered to himself. “Bloody fairy magic.”

On that, at least, we were in accord.

I tried to resist my body’s natural pull toward the door, feeling Brighten’s eyes on me as the royal physician knelt on the edge of the bed.

“Should we leave?” Eleanor asked. “Will the perfume affect us?”

“No,” I heard myself answer, as if from the other side of the room. Sweat drenched my back now, making my hair cling to my neck. “It contains his blood. The magic should only affect him.”

Eleanor moved to the King’s side, her hand dwarfing his shrunken shoulder. I couldn’t stop staring at the King, at his pitiful appearance. But . . .

I didn’t feel sorry. Not truly. This man had stolen the lives of an untold number of children to keep himself in good health for decades.

Death is natural and beautiful, Mama had told me as she lay in bed, too weak to take more than a sip of broth. And like the shadows that give a painting depth, or the animalic notes we use to enhance our florals, it cannot and should not be avoided. Not if life is to have any meaning at all.

The physician was still darkly muttering to himself as he dabbed the perfume onto two fingers and applied it above the King’s top lip and over his pulse point, as I’d instructed.

I wished, then, I had thought to bring a handkerchief to cover my mouth and nose. The soft florals in the perfume sharpened viciously as they met the doctor’s acerbic essence, turning the rose rancid.

I jolted as a log on the fire popped, firing sparks into the air.

“I need to . . .” I began.

The shift was subtle at first. The King’s breathing had been shallow before, but as his lips parted and released the scent of his rotting teeth, its whistle grew ragged. It smelled almost like burnt flesh—though that might have been the good physician’s annoyance singeing my nostrils.

Unable to tolerate it a moment longer, my hand rose to cover my mouth and nose.

“Are you well?” Eleanor asked, wide-eyed—but not to me. To the stone-still physician, whose face had gone as pale as chalk.

A high, keening noise filled the air, only to become a bloodcurdling scream. It was a noise like nothing I had heard before—a raw, animal sound. The physician wrenched around, his body contorting as he gasped and sobbed, clutching at his hand. His glasses were knocked askew as he lifted it before his face.

“My God!” Brighten’s voice choked off in horror.

At first, I couldn’t understand what I was seeing. Not the clumps of red that slid wetly from his fingers to the floor, splattering the air with blood. Not the small lengths of white that appeared, only to crumble as if devoured. The physician dropped to the floor in a dead faint.